


The Great Man

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: The Reichenbach Fall from Lestrades POV.





	1. Part One

"You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home ..." Sherlock closed the distance between them, reached forward and gently touched his index fingertip to Greg's forehead, "... there."

Tightly lipped, Greg just asked, "Will you come?" He knew the irony of that phrase. He didn't need Sherlock's help on a case this time; he needed to show his team that he was doing things by the book. It was a ridiculous idea that Sergeant Donovan had started running with – that Sherlock had not only solved the kidnapping case, he'd perpetrated it in the first place. But until Sherlock could be questioned and provide an alibi, the suspicions would gain traction. Like a cat who'd spent his nine lives, Sherlock had finally run out of good will at the Metropolitan Police, and those who had been jealous of Lestrade's clear-up rate were now circling like vultures.

Sherlock didn't reply. He sat down at the table and began to type on his laptop. "One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." He picked up the hidden camera that he had just discovered, examining it carefully before raising his eyes again to Greg. "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play." He looked away from Greg and just dismissed him with a quiet "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

For a moment, Greg wondered whether he should persevere, or perhaps appeal to John's more obliging nature, to get the doctor to try to persuade Sherlock to see sense. It was for his own good- Sherlock needed to put to rest the rumours about his role in the kidnapping. But, to be questioned called into question everything about the consulting detective, and Greg knew he was asking a lot of the man. He'd come in the vain hope that Sherlock's logic would overcome his pride and he would agree voluntarily. The DI also knew that Moriarty was manipulating him along with the rest of the Met; procedures made him just as much a pawn in this game as any of the victims of the crimes that the consulting criminal had perpetrated. But, he had no choice. It wasn't like Sherlock was actually _guilty_. The DI sighed, and unhappily turned back down the steps where he met an angry Sally Donovan at the foot of the stairs.

She followed him out into the street. Before he got into the back of the car, Greg looked up at the windows of the flat and saw John watching him. He felt the hostility in the gaze. _I know how you feel, mate. I'm none too happy about this myself._

Sally climbed in the other side and slammed the door. As soon as the car pulled away from the kerb, she lit into Lestrade. "Why didn't you pull him in?" She was outraged.

"I don't have a warrant, do I? And, if you recall your police procedure, he's under no obligation to help us with our enquiries." Greg's tone was sarcastic. He slouched back on the seat and looked despondent.

It just wound up Sally more. "He's running circles around you, Detective Inspector, and like some ….I don't know, some dog, you just roll over and let him. It's not good enough. The proof is sitting there on the evidence table; you've seen it. You can't deny it. It's circumstantial at the moment but it's enough to justify a warrant. If you won't get one because of some sort of misguided loyalty, then I will just have to go over your head."

That infuriated Lestrade. "Yeah, you'd just _love_ to do that, wouldn't you? You've been storing up your jealousy for years and now, when he's been cornered by Moriarty, you've got your chance. There was a time when being a member of my team meant we worked together on things, took decisions and when we disagreed about something we worked it out as colleagues. Where did that loyalty go, Donovan? What's happened to you?"

She snapped back. "I don't owe _him_ any loyalty. And maybe I've just got fed up with his prancing about like he owned the place. He's had you under his thumb for so long you don't even recognise it any more. You've given me no choice but to go over your head. At least I'm giving you the courtesy of telling you, so you can't accuse me of going behind your back. Want to defend his corner? Then come with me to the Chief Super- and make your case."

"So, you're resorting to ultimatums, now, Donovan? What happened to solving team differences within the team?"

She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. "You've turned a blind eye too often, Detective Inspector."

The sarcasm of her using his full title stung him. 

She wasn't done. "Anderson and I have brought the evidence to you. If you choose to ignore it, then you'll be in dereliction of duty. If I can prove that Holmes is the one who kidnapped the kids in the first place so he could appear to be their saviour, then you're going to have an awful lot of explaining to do. Trying to stifle an investigation is only the first offense. Care to add some more?"

He didn't reply. He spent the rest of the journey thinking about what happened to great men when the people they made feel small got their revenge. It paralysed him. The anxiety that had been building for the past six months, as Sherlock grappled with Moriarty, now spilled over into outright panic. He felt trapped into doing what his job, his training, his responsibility required of him, even if it was at the expense of his friendship with Sherlock. _You're a bastard, Moriarty, and if I ever get my hands on you again…._

oOo

By the time the car got back to New Scotland Yard, Greg knew that he had no alternative but to take this to the Chief Superintendent himself. If he didn't, then Sally would be able to push him aside and keep him off the investigation team. Sherlock's best hope would be to have someone on the team who didn't assume he was the guilty party. She had him over a procedural barrel, and she knew it. There was a spring in her stride as she followed him into the building. She had her phone out and was asking someone to join them in the Chief's office.

"Who are you speaking to, Donovan?"

"Anderson; as the Crime Scene Examiner on the scene, he has the right to be there. After all, it's his evidence."

"That's not necessary. Call him back and tell him to stay at his desk."

The woman stopped and glared at him. "Lestrade, just keep obstructing things and you'll be forced to recuse yourself. Philip Anderson is going to be there."

Greg drew in a shaky breath. Donovan and Anderson were clearly planning on enjoying this. Even when the evidence was proved to be circumstantial and Sherlock was released, they were going to extract every moment of revenge for all those insults over the years. A piece of him just wanted to find Moriarty and force him and his plans out into the open. He could not have orchestrated a better way to destroy Sherlock than giving Donovan and Anderson some rope with which to hang him. And Greg felt utterly powerless to stop the two of them from taking the next inevitable steps.

Mindful of the need to be seen to be neutral and unbiased, to avoid jeopardising his chance to remain on the investigation, Greg explained the problem to the Chief. He'd always disliked the man. A bluff northerner who liked to pretend he was a working class copper, the Chief had never been an operational detective on the Met force. He'd been parachuted into the job by the previous commissioner with a brief to cut costs. Lestrade knew his own brain wasn't in Sherlock Holmes' league, but over the years, he'd realised he was a good detective with a pretty sharp grasp of the essentials. _I need to be to keep up with Sherlock._ But, the Chief was remarkably dim. He was struggling to understand the issue.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, sir."

"That bloke that's been in the press."

Lestrade nodded.

"I thought he was some sort of private eye."

"He is."

"We've been consulting with him – that's what you're ... you're telling me? Not used him on any proper cases, though, have we?"

How could this man be as dumb as this? Greg knew that the higher ups in the Met were more concerned with political relations than with police operations, but the man must have been reading the newspapers, if not the Assistant Commissioner's reports about the department's successes. He decided to minimise the issue if he could get away with it. "Well, one or two."

But Anderson, standing behind the DI, was quick to correct him. "Or twenty or thirty."

That made the Chief look up in surprise. "What?"

Greg realised that he was now on the edge of losing this, so made a play to spread the responsibility. "Look, I'm not the only senior officer who did this. Gregson ..."

It didn't work. The Chief just cut him off. "Shut up! An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he's a suspect in a case!"

Lestrade tried again. "With all due respect, sir ..." but the man wasn't having it.

"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go and fetch him in right now!"

When he hesitated, the Chief just barked, "Do it!"

Greg stood and walked out, with Anderson and Donovan following close behind. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Chief, he growled at them, "Are you proud of yourselves?"

Anderson couldn't resist his moment of triumph. "Well, what if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?" As Sally made for the door, Anderson followed, even though there was no legitimate crime scene for him to examine. Nothing in the world was going to stop him from being there to witness the arrest of Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them saw Greg reach for his own coat, fish into his pocket and hit speed dial. _Not Sherlock; if anyone finds out I've tipped off a suspect, I'll be pushed off the case as fast as that Chief desk jockey can blink._ No, John will have to do; he'd know what to do.

oOo

Lestrade fully expected John to tell Sherlock what was coming, and that the man would disappear before the police showed up to arrest him. While it might look like he was guilty, Greg had every faith in Sherlock's ability to gather whatever evidence he needed to prove his innocence, no matter how diabolical Moriarty's trap might be. _Better outside fighting his own corner than locked up being interrogated by every Tom, Dick and Harry police officer he's pissed off over the years._

In the back of the squad car, Sally was on the phone. With a start, he realised she was talking to SO19. "Yep, we're on our way to 221b Baker Street to arrest a suspect, and we know that there is an illegal gun in the flat, which means you need to get armed response there the same time we do. Make it happen."

As she broke off the call, Greg just let rip. "Is that _really_ necessary? You know it isn't Sherlock's gun and that he's hardly going to come out shooting like some Wild West desperado." He was now so angry that he could hardly bother to be civil to her.

She sat smugly back on the seat, a grin splitting her face. "It's protocol, Guv. And you know it just as much as I do". She quoted from the regulations, ' _if a suspect is known to be armed and likely to resist arrest, contact the appropriate command for armed backup, rather than expose officers and the public to the threat of gunfire.'_ You've turned a blind eye to Watson's weapon for the past three years. This time, we've doing this by the book; no more bending the rules for Sherlock Holmes. And if he is humiliated by it, then good. That's just fine by me."

 _If she was a bloke, I'd have punched her by now._ He just held his temper, and hoped that the sirens would alert the occupants of Baker Street to get out of the flat as soon as possible, if they had not already done so.

By the time Lestrade got out of the car, there were two other police cars on the scene at Baker Street, which was ablaze with blue and red lights and people milling about. An officer was already banging on the door, shouting "police!"

It was Mrs Hudson who answered the door, and she looked stunned by the sight of all the officers and cars. Sergeant Donovan pushed past her into the doorway and shouted up the stairs, "Sherlock!" Lestrade tried to reassure the elderly lady, "Evening, Mrs Hudson."

Sally bellowed up, "…we need to talk to you!" and then beckoned two of the armed police up the stairs with her.

Mrs Hudson was outraged at the officers' behaviour, as they pushed her back against the wall. She cried out "Don't barge in like that!" Lestrade steadied her to make sure she didn't fall, and then followed the other three up the stairs. Half way up on the landing, John was waiting. Arms crossed and angry as hell, he shouted at Sally, "Have you got a warrant? Have you?"

Sergeant Donvoan had the momentum going to take her right past the doctor, and when he tried to grab the arm of one of the officers with her, Lestrade cautioned him, "Leave it, John" as Mrs Hudson came up behind him, still angry and complaining, "Really! Manners!"

When Greg got into the living room, Sally Donovan and the two officers were glaring at Sherlock, who stood quietly with his coat and scarf on. John followed him in, and, as he pushed by, Greg could feel the anger coming off from the shorter man.

For a moment, no one moved. Unlike John, the tall silent figure was calm, contained, his expression controlled and neutral. Sherlock didn't look at anyone but Greg, who mouthed a silent _I'm sorry_ and shook his head. Because everyone else was looking at Sherlock, no one but Sherlock saw Greg's regret. Sally snapped, "Do the honours, Lestrade, or I will. In fact, I'd be _delighted_ to."

The brunet gave an imperceptible nod, and averted his gaze as Greg approached and said "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

One of the armed officers attached handcuffs to Sherlock's left wrist, as John complained. "He's not resisting," appealing to Lestrade to leave his friend some shred of self respect.

As the officer pulled Sherlock's left hand behind his back in order to cuff his other wrist, Sherlock said quietly, "It's all right, John."

But John wouldn't have it. He repeated, louder, "He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

Lestrade just said in a resigned tone. "Get him downstairs now." The officer spun Sherlock around and marched him out of the room and down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was almost in tears, as John snapped at Lestrade, "You know you don't have to…"

Greg realised that John's anger was about to boil over and cause a scene. If Sherlock had decided to not take the opportunity to bolt, then his second best chance at clearing his name needed John on the outside working to clear his name. Greg knew he had to do something quickly. He came up close to John and pointed his finger at the doctor's chest. "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too." He turned around and left, hoping his warning would help John realise what was best for Sherlock. He prayed that Sally, who remained behind, would not provoke him. As he went down the stairs, he met the Chief Superintendent coming back up the stairs. Greg kept his tongue, but groaned to himself. _That's all we need; this idiot coming to add salt to the wounds._

Outside, the scene seemed to have become even more crowded. Lestrade wondered whether any of the SO6special protection boys had turned up. If so, they were going to be as confused as hell that the person they were detailed to protect was now the subject of police arrest. He found himself praying that Mycroft was already aware and at work in the background trying to get this mess sorted. _If there was ever a time to interfere, big brother, this is it._

Greg watched as the SO19 officer pushed Sherlock hard against the side of the squad car and made him spread his legs for a body search. Lestrsade closed his eyes, briefly distressed for Sherlock's sake. He didn't like being touched at the best of times. Amidst the noise and confusion, with the police car lights swirling their colours, and the stress of all these unknown faces, Lestrade worried about Sherlock's sensory perception disorder. Would he go into meltdown under the onslaught? This was s _o_ not the way to do this. He turned to see if he could find the SO19 officer in charge. A word about the suspect might help calm things down.

He was in conversation on just this point when another armed officer came out of Baker Street pushing John Watson. Behind him came the Chief Superintendent holding a bloodied handkerchief to his streaming nose. _Oh God, that's torn it. He's gone and provoked Watson into punching him._ John was slammed up against the same squad car as Sherlock, and Greg could see the taller figure turn to talk with his shorter friend. Behind them the officers changed the cuffing, so that the two suspects being arrested were now handcuffed together, facing the side of the police car.

Greg started to move forward- putting those two side-by-side was not a good idea. A Sherlock content to be taken in was not the same as a Sherlock when John was at risk. He knew that better than anyone else on the scene. But before he could take his second step, all hell broke loose. Sherlock reached into the police car's front window and hit something on the dashboard that made half the uniformed officers double over in pain, then then Greg watched in utter horror as the brunet turned around and calmly helped himself to the SO19 officer's handgun. Sherlock raised the weapon in his hand, dragging John's cuffed hand up with his own as he called out in a loud baritone, "Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?"

When no one reacted, he raised the gun to the sky and fired twice. "NOW would be good!" He pulled the weapon back down and pointed it at the SO19 officer. Greg was scared witless that the guy would try to tackle Sherlock and that something horrible would happen, so he bellowed as loud as he could "Do as he says!" Greg gestured with his hands downwards and the officers started to comply.

Sherlock started to back away from the police car, pulling a startled John with him. Watson shouted, "just, just so that you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a…you know…a.."

Sherlock transferred the gun to his right hand and pointed it at John's head, then completed the doctor's sentence. "…my hostage."

John gasped and said something Greg couldn't hear to Sherlock, who continued to move back until they were at the corner. Then they disappeared from view. Greg just lowered his head into his hands. _Oh, Sherlock- what have you done! Every bloody cop in town is now going to be after you, including the ones that shoot first and ask questions later._

The Chief Superintendent got to his feet and turned to Greg. With a bellow, he shouted "Get after him, Lestrade!" Sally took off after the pair, as Lestrade gave her a look that could have killed. He followed, hoping to God that the pair would get safely away.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wondered what happened to Lestrade after Sherlock took John hostage? Here's the answer.

Greg caught up with Sally Donovan and two SO19 officers less than five minutes later, down a side street. She waved a gun in a gloved hand. "Holmes ditched this right in plain sight, in the middle of the street. Presumably, he's smart enough to know that if he kept it we'd have no choice but to use weapons." She put the gun in an evidence bag and gave it to Lestrade. "Come on; he can't have gotten far."

"You go; I'm going to get onto HQ and get more help." She frowned at him, but bolted off with the two officers in tow.

On his way back to Baker Street, Lestrade contacted the Control Room and ordered more cars to patrol the nearby streets to see if they could catch sight of the fugitive pair. He made sure that other foot patrols from the nearby stations were on their way, and called in the police helicopter. In the inevitable investigation that would be made of the incident, it would be important to show that he'd done the right thing without delay. The calls were monitored and time stamped, so gave him some sense of protection. At the moment, all he could think of was staying on the investigation team, and trying to make sure that it was an unarmed policeman who cornered them rather than some trigger-happy SO19 officer who had watched too many American SWAT team videos. _Thank God, he got rid of the gun!_

As he got back to 221b, he saw all the lights in the flat were on and through the windows he could see blue-suited CSEs at work. While he was looking up, the Chief Superintendent came over and pulled him aside. The man's nose was a mess of dried blood and swelling up nicely. He was still red faced with anger, and his didn't hold back.

"You have one chance, and I mean _one_ , to make this right, Lestrade. Find him _now_ and get him in a cell before he makes monkeys of this force. The tabloids are just going to _love_ this fiasco, and I will not have this Holmes guy destroy our reputation. A simple arrest, that's all I want, but I want it NOW. I am holding you _personally_ responsible, Detective Inspector. If you want your job- hell, if you want to get a pension after I force you into early retirement, you're going to get that madman locked up tonight. You will telephone me with an update every hour, do you hear me?"

"I'd get that seen to at an A&E, Chief; it looks broken." Lestrade just tried to stay focused and not let the man rattle him anymore than he already had. In his worst nightmares, he had imagined having to arrest Sherlock for going over the boundaries of proper procedure, but never in his grim fantasies had he imagined a scenario as bad as this one.

Less than a half hour later, he was beginning to think that Sherlock just might have pulled the escape off. There were no reports or sightings. So, he decided there was little point in hanging around as the Crime Scene Examiners tore the flat to shreds looking for non-existant evidence. He was in the back of one of the cars heading back to New Scotland Yard when he overheard the Control Room despatcher on the car's Airwave police radio, "three shots fired in the vicinity of Baker Street and Portman Square; bus driver reported narrowly missing two men in the street. Foot patrol is on its way."

Lestrade shouted at the driver to turn the car around.

By the time he arrived, the road was already blocked, and the scene was being taped off. Donovan was there talking to two uniformed officers and, as he ducked under the tape, he saw the dark form of a body lying on the street. For a split second, Greg froze. Then his brain processed the visual image and he realised that whoever it was, he was too short to be Sherlock, and too tall to be John. When he knelt down to take a look, he was joined by a blue suited CS Examiner. With a start, Greg recognised Anderson.

Anderson did little to contain his sneer. "Well, who would believe it? First he resists arrest, then he takes a hostage and now we have a dead body. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence in his innocence, does it, Detective Inspector?"

"Just do your job, Anderson. Tell me how he died."

"Three bullet wounds, through and through. In the back. So Sherlock's a coward, too."

"Shut up, Anderson. You have no proof that this is even connected."

Anderson just rocked back on his heels and looked at Greg with an incredulous expression. "What are the odds of this being a co-incidence- not more than a quarter of a mile away from an earlier shooting incident?"

Greg just snarled "Who is he?" Anderson reached into the man's jacket pocket and pulled out an ID. "Jean Paul LeFabre, according to his EU driver's license. French. God, he's killed some innocent tourist."

Greg couldn't take it anymore. "Shut up, Anderson. That's enough out of you. However much you might want this to be the result of what happened tonight with Sherlock, until you get me incontrovertible proof, I will continue to follow my oath of duty and presume someone is innocent until proven guilty. If you can't find your professional ethics amidst your jealousy, then recuse yourself and I will find someone who can do so."

That made the two men stand up and face each other, each livid with anger. Anderson nearly shrieked, "ME? You're saying I should step away from the case? What about _you_ , Lestrade? You're such a buddy of those two fugitives that you're probably helping them escape by being purposefully inept. I have every mind to complain to the Director of Forensics. In fact, I _will_. This has just gone on too long. I won't have you impugning my skills or my professionalism for a moment longer!"

"Listen Anderson, you may not have heard yet. Sally Donovan recovered the gun that Sherlock took. He dropped it five minutes after leaving the flat. So what's he used to do this murder? Before you start jumping to conclusions, give me an idea what kind of gun killed this man and find me a bullet. If your skills aren't up to that, then get the body moved to the morgue as quick as you can so the medical examiner can tell me the answers I need."

Lestrade spun on his heel and walked off. He stopped to speak briefly to Donovan through clenched teeth. "House-to-house, Sergeant. I want an eye-witness who can tell me what happened after the bus driver saw the two men jump in front of him."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And what are _you_ going to be doing in the meantime, Detective Inspector?"

"I'm heading back to the Yard so I can get a look at the CCTV footage. It might tell us more than all these bloody foot patrols." He started to walk away back to his car.

She called after him. "Holmes knows where every camera is in Central London. If he doesn't want to be seen, you won't find him. But then, you don't actually _want_ to find him, do you Lestrade?"

He didn't bother to turn around, just shouted back over his shoulder, "Do your job, Sergeant and I'll do mine."

oOo

Back at the office, he found that DI Dimmock was setting up a new evidence board. With Sherlock and John's photos prominently featuring, Sally's evidence was now displayed. The younger DI was briefing his team when Lestrade walked into the back of the open plan room.

"The Chief has asked us to review the case of the kidnapping and to re-evaluate the evidence in light of the new development. We have a new prime suspect, but so far the evidence is circumstantial. We need more if we are to bring this to a prosecution."

One of PCs on Dimmock's team spoke up. "That's assuming we can catch the bugger. I've heard he's pretty good at avoiding capture." There were a few nods around the rest of the team.

Dimmock caught Lestrade's eye. "Well, let's ask the expert in Holmes. Lestrade, any ideas where he might be?"

For a moment, Greg debated about saying what he really felt instead of what he knew he _should_ say. Discretion triumphed.

"Haven't a clue, Dimmock, but then he used to call us both _idiots_ , didn't he?" He walked out and down the corridor to the coffee machine. This just might be one of the longest nights of his career and he needed to stay awake for it.

Back at his desk, he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and started to make some notes. First of all, the kidnapping had obviously been rigged so as to frame Sherlock. So, why did the little girl Claudette Bruhl scream when she saw Sherlock? What had she been told? Had her abductors worn masks? Could one of them have looked like Sherlock, been dressed to look like him? Moriarty knew Sherlock's ways, his clothing, his behaviour. What if he'd used someone dressed as Sherlock to scare the child?

The girl had been so distressed that she made no sense at all the night when Sherlock tried to speak to her. The US Ambassador took her home- and sent her and her younger brother back to the USA the next morning, to stay with his divorced wife. So they couldn't find out more on that front, alas. _How convenient._ He speculated that someone might have suggested a rapid removal- that would be just like Moriarty. In hindsight, the whole exercise reeked of being stage managed by the man. Moriarty would have known that the US Ambassador would call on Holmes. Ever since the American banker had been saved from kidnappers by Sherlock, his reputation would make him the logical choice. And Sherlock had been brought into the case by SO6. It was only Mycroft's insistence that Lestrade manage Sherlock's relations with the Met which had brought his Murder Investigation Unit into the picture. _Again, Moriarty would have figured that out._

He banged the pen down on the desk in frustration. He had no _evidence_ \- just speculation. And that wasn't going to help Sherlock.

He was still thinking about it when there was a knock on the side of his open door. Lestrade looked up to see a young PC standing there. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Chief Superintendent wants to see you in his office now. I'm to take you there."

That last statement confused Greg's tired mind. "I know the way, officer."

The PC looked embarrassed. "I know, sir; it's just I have my orders to… _escort_ you there."

_Oh shit._

Lestrade didn't say another word until he got into the Chief's office and the young lad closed the door behind him. The Chief's nose now wore a white bandage that showed off the purple emerging under both of his eyes. He looked bad, and mad, too- a scowl that would have told him all he needed to know, if he hadn't already figured it out.

"So, you can't even complete a simple arrest of an unarmed, handcuffed man. I heard that the gun had been found. What use are you, Lestrade?" The tape across his nose made his northern accent even more nasal.

Before he could reply, the Chief answered for him. "I'll tell you what sort of copper you are, Lestrade- and that's _worse_ than useless. Incompetence is something I've had to get used to- but this…this is _worse_." He gestured down at his desk. "Shall I read you a few choice extracts from this morning's _Sun_ newspaper? Turns out your mate Sherlock Holmes is a fraud. Hired an out of work actor, Richard Brook, to pretend he was this master criminal called James Moriarty. You know, the bloke that broke into the Bank of England, stole the Crown Jewels and opened the door to Pentonville Prison? Yeah, that bloke- the one we prosecuted, the one who walked free. He's not _real_ , just a scheme cooked up in the brain of that nutter you've been working with for the past decade."

Greg's tired mind tried to process the significance of what the Chief had just said. Stunned, he grabbed the newspaper and scanned down the article. _Oh my God._ He had underestimated what Moriarty was capable of doing. He had been trying to figure out how to rescue Sherlock from the kidnapping case, never dreaming that it was about to get a whole lot worse.

"Yeah, well, that's just the first edition, Lestrade. Wait for the second edition when they can add in the details about Holmes avoiding arrest and running circles around the Met all night. This reporter Kitty Riley- she's already been on the phone to me asking for all sorts of facts and figures. While you've been wasting time chasing shadows, I've been doing some digging." The big man was now pacing in anger.

"Fifty two cases, Lestrade. _Fifty two bloody cases!_ It will take us _months_ of re-investigation. Convictions challenged, overturned too on all sorts of technicalities, not least of which is the impropriety of using a civilian to do police work. What were you thinking, Lestrade? What possible reason could be behind such stupidity?"

Greg finally found his voice. "It's not what you think, Chief. This…" he gestured at the paper "..is just another part of Moriarty's game. Sherlock's work with us has been the reason why my team has the best clear-up rate in the force."

The Chief just laughed. "You still don't get it? _That's because he was the one doing the crimes, you idiot!_ "

Lestrade just crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You can investigate each and every one of those cases, sir, and you will find that they stand up in court. Sherlock Holmes is being victimised, framed for all this; it's part of Moriarty's plan to destroy him."

"Why are you so keen to defend him? Is there something going on between you two? Your Sergeant has suggested as much to me. Is he blackmailing you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. And don't believe everything you hear from Sally Donovan. She's been consumed by jealousy ever since Holmes first showed up at a crime scene and made her look like a fool."

"It's not her I'm worried about, Lestrade. It's _you_. If he isn't blackmailing you into this…then...I'll just ask you this once because that newspaper article says Holmes is a queer. You and he…aren't…an item, are you? Because I have to know the worst of this…the papers are going to go ballistic."

Greg was stunned by the accusation. He said very quietly, very firmly, "I am not a homosexual, and I have never had an improper relationship with Sherlock Holmes. I was a happily married man for nearly twenty years."

"Divorced recently, I hear."

Greg just closed his eyes and tried to get control of his temper. He was so close to adding more bruises to the man's face.

"Yeah, well, couldn't stop the wife being an idiot and falling in love with a gym instructor, could I? Not exactly anything to do with Holmes, sir. With respect, I don't think this is a fruitful topic of discussion. When these cases are investigated again, you'll see that the Met has nothing to worry about. The convictions will stand. The truth is that Holmes is innocent."

"That's not for you to decide, Lestrade. In fact, nothing of what is going to happen is any of your business anymore. You're suspended with immediate effect. My aide will escort you back to your desk and you can clear it now. Turn in your warrant card. You're done. I don't know how many months it will take to re-investigate fifty two cases, but you are on garden leave until it's over. Now get out of my sight, you sicken me."

oOo

He had never been one for a lot of personal items at work. So clearing his desk didn't take long. Under the watchful eye of the Chief's PC, he filled an empty cardboard box he nicked from the photocopying room with the few items he would miss. He knew better than to take any files or police information. When he woke up his PC screen to log off and close it down, he saw that it had already been done. The PC said quietly, "Protocol, sir. Password and log in have already been changed."

He felt like he was sleepwalking. The corridors of New Scotland Yard were familiar but somehow out of kilter as he went down in the lift and went to the front desk. The PC reminded him to leave his warrant card with the desk Sergeant.

"I'm sorry sir, but you no longer qualify for a driver, so I've called you a taxi. It's waiting outside the barrier by the pavement."

He was grateful for the gesture. At this hour of the morning trying to hail one on the street would take time, and they were as keen to see the back of him as he was to get out of the place. As he got in the back and put his box on the seat beside him, he could see the faint streaks of dawn lighting up the windows of New Scotland Yard.

He gave the driver his flat address and the cab started to move off. He felt defeated. He felt exhausted. _They're going to destroy him, piece by piece. They don't even realise that they are Moriarty's pawns._ Now that he was stuck in limbo, there was no one willing to see it from Sherlock's point of view. He wouldn't be surprised if the Chief decided to release the story about the dead man at Portland Square being attributed to Sherlock. _Make him into a deranged murderer; easier to hate then_.

The thought of that made him very, very angry. Suddenly, anger kicked in with an adrenaline rush. He couldn't just go home and sit on the side lines watching the destruction of a great man unfold before his eyes- it was just too much to ask. He tapped on the window to get the cabbie's attention.

"Sorry, changed my mind. Can you head to St Bartholomew's hospital, please?"

The very least he could do was to see what the ME had discovered about the dead body. There had to be some proof that Sherlock wasn't involved. And he'd find a way to get that to the newspapers. Over the years, he'd built up some contacts of his own whose discretion could be counted on. He would need to be careful. Suspended cops who broke the rules were dealt with harshly. But, he didn't care anymore. His professional reputation lay in tatters until Sherlock's could be repaired. He was going to do what he could for both of their sakes.

oOo

"I'm grateful, Miss Hooper, that you were here at this early hour and willing to let me see the body."

She looked tired and distracted; her eyes were a little red. Well, he figured he must look like hell, too. He'd never been through such a bad night before in his life, so he wasn't going to pass judgement on someone else.

Molly gave Greg one of her shy tentative smiles. She seemed a bit nervous. Had someone told her that Lestrade was suspended? He hoped not, he didn't want to get her into trouble. But his instinct to protect her was weaker than his need to know and to prove that Sherlock wasn't involved in the fatal shooting.

She wheeled out the trolley and pulled the sheet back. "I haven't started the autopsy yet; been…um..busy…tonight. Sorry."

"It's alright. I just need to understand how he died. Can you tell from the wounds?"

She stepped up to the corpse and examined the wounds. "Well, obviously they're bullet wounds. Probably a rifle- you can tell by the exit sites. If it was a handgun, they'd be bigger." She struggled to turn the body on its side, so Greg helped, his hands recoiling a bit from how cold the flesh felt. "Sorry, he's still in full rigor. That's why we won't do the actual autopsy for a couple more hours." She bent over to look at the entry wounds more closely. "Yes, definitely a rifle. No stippling, no powder burns." She looked thoughtful. "Looking at where the bullets went in and where they excited, definitely high velocity- very little track deviation inside the body. Basically, a rifle bullet is going so fast that it just smashes everything out of the way and exits in a straight line. A hand gun bullet can't get that much speed, so it tends to …skitter around inside, inflicting a lot of tissue damage along the way. I once saw a bullet entry wound in the shoulder exit out by the thigh. Strange…."

Lestrade decided to lay his cards on the table. He needed someone else to be on Sherlock's side when they tried to pin this death on him. "Miss Hooper. At some point in the next few hours, someone from the police might try to claim that this man died because Sherlock Holmes used a hand gun to kill him."

Molly raised wide eyes to Lestrade's. "But..but…that's ridiculous!"

"Yes, well you and I know that, but there are a lot of people who want to cause him problems- including someone called James Moriarty." He heard her gasp. Did she know him? How? Greg was puzzled.

"So, whatever story the police try to spin, I want you to get the truth out there. Will you do that for me? For him?"

She blushed. "Of course.. You can count on me."

He smiled. And then decided that her trust needed to be reciprocated. "Those same police will tell you that I was suspended tonight, because of Sherlock's involvement in so many of my cases over the years. So, strictly speaking, I am not allowed to be here, nor are you allowed to be showing me this body. But, I had to know. And to know that they won't be able to twist this so that Sherlock somehow becomes responsible for this death. Will you keep my visit secret?"

She was looking at him with a steady, calm gaze. "You can trust me, Detective Inspector. I will tell the truth about this, even if they don't want to hear it. And when they come to ask me about his role in those cases, they will get the truth from me, nothing else. I promise."

"They will try to make him into a monster, Miss Hooper. I hope you won't be distressed by it. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. I'm not going to be able to say that in public- by putting me on suspension, they've muzzled me. But they can't touch you, so just tell them the truth."

"I _know_ , detective inspector. And I will, I promise."

At that Greg turned toward the door, only to be stopped by her reaching out and putting a hand on his arm as he passed. "Um… you need to do something before you leave, Detective Inspector. There's…something in the lab…upstairs. You know, the one that Sherlock uses…." She let go.

He thought through what she said, and then a gentle smile emerged on both of their faces. "Thank you, Miss Hooper."

oOo

As he came down the hall, he realised that the lights in the lab were on. _A good sign!_ As he came up to the doors, Greg heard an odd noise. Thump…THUMP…thump…THUMP. Over and over. He pushed open the door and looked down the long row of lab tables to see what was causing the noise. There, sitting on the floor with his back against one side of cupboards, Sherlock was throwing a small rubber ball hard against the floor so that it bounced up against the cupboard opposite him. He caught it on the rebound and sent it back again. Over and over, his eyes were not directly watching the ball. He did not seem to be aware of Greg's presence in the room. Thump…THUMP …thump…THUMP.

Greg drew in a deep breath. _Now that I've found him, just what the hell am I going to say to him?_


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation that must have ended up on the cutting room floor when they edited the broadcast episode.

"Come to arrest me _again_ , Lestrade?" If there was a tinge of irony in the baritone, Greg wouldn't blame him. Thump…THUMP …thump…THUMP. Sherlock continued throwing the ball.

"Can't- I've been suspended; they've taken away my warrant card. So, you're safe from me."

"Not going to tell anyone then?" It was asked in a flat monotone. The brunet kept up the rhythm of the ball bouncing against the cupboard opposite, catching it with one hand and rapidly sending it back again. Greg had once watched his nephew Sam spend an entire afternoon on the patio doing that with a tennis ball against the back garden wall. He knew that the repetition was soothing for the boy, and his sister allowed it. "Better than stimming in public, isn't it?" had been her reaction

As the ball bounced on the floor, then the cupboard before returning again to Sherlock's hand, Greg realised then just how done in the man was. He needed the routine physical activity as a form of self-stimulation, to calm his mind. _Wish it had the same effect on me._

"Where's John?"

"Minding his own business, as you should be, Detective Inspector."

"Sherlock, I just told you that I've been suspended. I'm not here in an official capacity." He came down the aisle and sat down beside Sherlock. "I'm here because I am your friend and I want to help."

Sherlock caught the ball and stopped. "Too late. Damage is done. This is end game."

Greg sighed. "For us both, if you don't figure out how to rescue your reputation. The Chief delighted in showing me a few choice bits from tomorrow's Sun newspaper, but my guess is that you know all about that. Then he spent ten minutes chewing me out for a decade's worth of work with you. So, it's not just all about you, Sherlock."

"I know that." The ball resumed its trajectory. Thump…THUMP….thump.

Greg intercepted the ball on its return journey. "What can I do to help? I mean it; I can't just sit at home in my flat pretending this isn't happening."

"Stay out of it. That way, you can keep John safe. That's all that matters now."

Greg digested that, and came to a sudden realisation. "You intend going after Moriarty, don't you? A confrontation?"

"Good to see that my powers of deduction have _finally_ penetrated that thick skull of yours."

Greg thought about it. "You're just daft enough to get yourself killed. Don't do this alone."

Sherlock started throwing the ball again. "I have to. I won't expose John any more to this. Can't. Won't. You can't get involved either, or you won't ever stand a chance of reinstatement. And nothing you say is going to change my mind."

Greg has to ask. "Who the hell was the French guy, dead at Portland Square?"

At the _non sequitur_ , Sherlock caught the ball and looked over at Greg. "An assassin. Moriarty's had a batch of them keeping an eye on me for the past couple of months- all part of his 'gamesmanship'. I realised tonight that each of them wants to make sure I survive because they think Moriarty gave me something of value. But they will all happily kill one another if they think that one of them is getting what he led them to believe I have. He was killed by one of the other assassins."

Greg heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, Molly says the ballistics and autopsy will support your version. That's one less thing Sally Donovan can pin to your tail. But if she finds something incriminating at Baker Street, she won't stop to think it might have been planted by Moriarty. She's after your scalp."

"Don't hate her, Lestrade."

That startled the DI. Of all the things that Sherlock could have said, he'd have bet that was the least likely. He exploded. "Why the _hell_ not? She's like a bitch on heat, she's so excited to have a chance to do you down."

The ball resumed its journey. "She's doing her job, Lestrade. It's not her fault that she is being manipulated by Moriarty. He's been doing that to everyone- me, you, John…even my brother. John was angry with you at the flat, but I'm not. I don't hold you responsible. It's not your fault that Moriarty is doing this. If you let sentiment get in the way, then you won't be able to defend yourself properly when the charges are made against you."

"Speaking of your brother…"

Sherlock interrupted him, "I'd rather not."

"Sherlock, if he can help, he needs to do it soon, or there won't be any reputation of yours left to salvage."

"Leave him out of this. He proved he can't stop Moriarty- or do I need to remind you yet again about Pentonville, the Tower and the Bank of England? Those were the consequence of his attempt to deal with Moriarty. The ultimate two fingers to the British establishment, I'd say."

Greg sighed. "I'm going to call him."

Sherlock caught the ball and then looked at him. "No, you are not. Even if you do, he won't return the call."

Greg was aghast. "What, _he's_ left you high and dry? You're on your own on this? I don't believe that. He's been big Brother too long to abandon you now."

"Let's just say we had a major difference of opinion and leave it at that. He won't, he _can't_ lift a finger to intervene, or it will cost him his life's work*. I don't want that. And I don't need his help."

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait for the sun to come up, arrange to see Moriarty and solve this once and for all."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"It's time you were going, Lestrade. Someone's going to figure out you've been poking your nose into places you are no longer authorised to be. So, get back to your flat. Time to be seen to be playing the role of the suspended DI. I need you to do that. When they come with questions about the cases, you have to be seen as a reliable witness- for both our sakes. Go, now."

"Sherlock…."

"Do you want to be locked up for interfering with an investigation? How about adding perverting the course of justice to the list of your misdemeanors? Get out of here, Lestrade. Every moment you are in this building, it's making your task of rehabilitation that much harder. You _cannot_ be seen to be taking sides, especially not mine, especially not today."

"What happened to the assassin's gun? I assume he had a gun on him? Miss Hooper didn't mention it."

"It's in my coat pocket. _Relax_ , I have no intention of using it to kill Moriarty. If it were that simple, then I am sure that _lots_ of other people would have tried before me. I have to defeat him in a way that …will work. And, no, I am not going to explain anything more. Just leave, now."

"Sherlock, if you fail- if you can't beat him. If there's no way to repair the damage he's done…what happens next?"

"There is no _next_. I meant what I said, Lestrade. This is _end game._ Now go home. I'm done talking." The ball resumed its path. Thump…THUMP…thump…THUMP. After five minutes of sitting there in silence,broken only by the sound of the ball, Greg intercepted it and demanded that Sherlock talk to him, explain what he was going to do. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, wouldn't answer-just held out his hand for the ball. Greg gave up, and banged the ball angrily down against the floor. Sherlock caught the rebound and continued.

Thump…THUMP…thump...THUMP.

It was still going when the lab door swung shut behind Greg. He knew he had to find John, but had no idea where to start looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In my universe, Mycroft is less of a co-conspirator with Sherlock in planning the Fall; See the Game Theory Series story Fallen Angel for the explanation.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade tries to find John, and Moriarty's assassin moves into place shadowing him.

The momentum of his anger and frustration with Sherlock carried him right down the stairs to street level before he ran out of steam. Now standing on the pavement outside St. Bart's hospital, Greg tried to figure out what to do next. Sherlock could be so _infuriating._ He was only trying to help, but if the man wouldn't acknowledge that fact, then there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He tried to sort through his emotions. He was angry at the whole scenario- being pushed by procedure into arresting Sherlock, angry at being manipulated by Donovan, the Chief, even Moriarty. He was angry at himself. And burning away in the back of his head was the knowledge that he was just about to lose his entire career, despite having invested everything of himself in the Met. When he stopped thinking about himself, he was furious with Sherlock for being hell-bent on confronting the Irishman on his own. Tired, angry and just so frustrated he could kick something, Greg was coming close to the edge.

He glanced around in the early morning light, looking for somewhere to sit and calm down. His eye was caught first by the phone box on his right- nowhere to sit. Then he saw the weathered wooden benches against the wall- no, too exposed to the wind that was now whipping up the pavement. To the left he saw the bus shelter. Yes, that would do. He sat on the folding seat put in by London Transport, grateful for protection. It was promising to be one of those irritating London days- grey skies, the odd brief shower, then occasional sunny spells, but a strong biting wind. It suited his mood- all over the place, unable to make its mind up.

He took a deep breath. _Get a grip._ He'd be no good for anything if he couldn't calm down enough to think things through. The only one he knew could actually stop Sherlock was his brother. It would be a drastic solution- and Sherlock would probably never trust him again if he got Mycroft to lock him up somewhere safe from Moriarty's plots. _Tough. He might be pissed off with me, but he'll still be alive._ He pulled his phone out, scrolled down the contact list and found Mycroft's personal number.

Two rings and then the voice of his PA. "How can I help you, Detective Inspector? Or should I say, Mister Lestrade?" It was said kindly and with some sympathy, but it still made his blood boil. He growled, "So, Mycroft's got spies to tell him the latest Yard gossip, but he's still not doing anything to protect Sherlock?"

There was a little huff on the other end of the line. "I can pass that message onto Mr Holmes, if you'd like, but is there anything substantive you would like to add?" Her tone was now professionally cool.

"Does that mean he won't talk to me directly, because he's got you to hide behind?"

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting. I can pass a message onto him, but he is unlikely to be able to return your call anytime soon."

" _FINE."_ Greg spat out the word, knowing that the tone conveyed that it was far from fine. "Yes, do that: tell him to get off his backside and get Sherlock locked up somewhere safe. _NOW_. His brother is at Bart's, if he doesn't actually know that. He's only got himself to blame if everything goes to hell in the next couple of hours." He stabbed the key to end the call. He noticed a woman who had arrived at the bus shelter- the next bus was probably due any minute. She gave him a strange look, must have overheard his conversation. The bus arrived, and she got on. He stayed seated, trying to think his way out of an increasingly tight corner.

For the second time in the past fifteen minutes, Greg knew that he had failed to connect with a Holmes. He was running out of options. If Big Brother was sitting on his hands, the only one Greg knew able to talk Sherlock out of something crazy was John. So, if he wanted to stop Sherlock, he was going to have to locate the doctor. The last time Greg had seen him he was attached to Sherlock's wrist, claiming to be a hostage. Now he was unattached. "Minding his own business" is what Sherlock had said. What the hell did _that_ mean? For the whole time that Lestrade had known John Watson, Sherlock _was_ his business. John's world revolved around the man. He could not, not for a single moment, believe that John would have stopped trying to help Sherlock get out of this mess. No matter what Sherlock said or did, Watson's loyalty went deep enough to survive whatever his flatmate tried to use to deter him. Maybe the best thing that Greg could do at this point was just to put the two of them back together again.

If he was going to find John, he needed to know what was happening. For all he knew, Watson might have already been caught by the police and was sitting in a cell somewhere. That made him remember something that Sherlock said about the assassins. Moriarty had led them to believe that Sherlock had something valuable, back in the flat. Something worth killing each other rather than let it fall into someone else's hands. So, what was it? He wondered what the Crime Scene Examiners might have turned up. That report was probably sitting on his desk, because the news about his suspension probably would not have spread widely yet- it was still too early. Most of the Murder Investigation Teams wouldn't be in.

That thought was a fuse that led to an extraordinary realisation. _There is an advantage to being sacked in the middle of the night- most people won't know yet._ He wondered if he just might be brazen enough to walk back into the Yard and see what had turned up. Maybe he could convince DI Dimmock to tell him what was going on. He also knew how lax most of the team were- someone on the floor would have been stupid enough, or tired enough, to forget to log off. So even if they'd taken his user name and password off, he'd still probably be able to finesse computer access.

So it was that twenty three minutes later, Greg Lestrade walked into New Scotland Yard with his usual take-away coffee in his hands and nodded at the new shift's desk sergeant. Just like every morning when he came in balancing a coffee, newspaper and fumbling for the pass that he knew must be somewhere, the sergeant hit the security gate release and waved him through. _Thank God we're all so bloody predictable._

The open plan room was nearly empty- just two detective constables looking tired and grumpy from being on an all-nighter. Greg scanned the evidence board at the far end with Sherlock's photo taking pride of place, the position usually reserved for the prime suspect. Nothing new had been added since he last looked, which gave him some comfort. At least it proved that John was not yet in custody. As he turned away from the board, he caught sight of Dimmock sitting in his own office, three doors down from Greg's; he looked tired, even at this distance. Hoping that he hadn't been noticed, Greg slipped into his own office, where he saw a file sitting on the desk. He was leafing through it, scanning for anything that the Crime Scene Examiners turned up that would have been worth killing for, when Dimmock popped his head around the office door.

"I thought you'd been…sent home?" It was a cautious query, neutral in tone.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is …loose ends need tying up." Greg hoped that was sufficiently vague. Before Dimmock could reply, Greg resumed. "The dead guy at Portland Square- he was a French assassin, linked to the Irish bomber- Moriarty."

Dimmock's eyes widened, "How the hell did you find that out?"

"I have my sources. It will check out. The ballistics report- you put a rush on it?"

"Yes, of course, we need to know if Holmes did it."

"Well, you can relax. The autopsy report shows it was done by a sniper- high velocity rifle."

"You've been busy…" Now there was a flare of suspicion in the young DI's tone.

"Did you really expect me to sit in my kitchen while all this is going on? Would _you_ , if our positions were reversed?" Greg hoped that by building some rapport it would be harder for Dimmock to report him to the Chief.

The younger man grimaced. "Probably not, but then I've only done a few cases with Holmes; he's half your bloody career. So, I get why you'd want him to be innocent. That's why they've taken you off the case- you can't be expected to be impartial."

Greg realised that Dimmock thought that he'd only been removed from this particular case, not suspended from his post. That would give him more time. He pushed the file into Dimmock's hands. "That's the CS report on 221b. They didn't find anything- which is definitely wrong. There's something there that is worth assassins killing each other for- so I suggest you send someone back over there to give it a proper going over. Someone other than Anderson. If you think I can't be neutral, then you haven't seen the depth of his animosity."

DI Dimmock gave a tired smile. "Holmes has that effect on people- there are at least a dozen coppers in this building who would love to see him in the dock. He really does know how to get up people's noses."

Greg ignored that, and remembered what Sherlock had nicknamed the man now standing in front of him - _dimwit_. For once, he hoped Sherlock's assessment was accurate, because that might give him more room to manoeuver. "Have there been any leads on Watson's whereabouts?"

Dimmock looked puzzled. "According to your sergeant, the guy was last seen handcuffed to Holmes. You were there, remember?"

"Yeah, but get real. Sherlock would get out of those cuffs without too much trouble. He's able to pick locks on almost every door I've ever seen, so a pair of handcuffs won't take him long. If I know him, and I do, then he will want to put some distance between him and the good doctor."

"Why would he want to do that? You heard him- Watson's a hostage."

Greg snorted. "Don't be an idiot, Dimmock. Watson chinned the Chief because he wanted to stay close to Sherlock. The 'hostage' label was Sherlock's version- a way of keeping the doctor as the innocent in this. He wanted Watson free- and the danger Sherlock is in now will make him want to push his friends away."

"Danger? What danger?"

"Look, Dimmock- this whole scene is…well, it's complicated. Holmes has been at war with Moriarty- you remember him?" He said it patiently.

"Of course I remember him. The guy robbed the Bank of England and the Crown Jewels, for God's sake."

"And walked free. Holmes has been trying to catch up with him." Greg gestured at the file in Dimmock's hands. "And Moriarty's not stupid. He's _framing_ Sherlock; setting him up and making us do his dirty work for him. And, like the idiots he keeps telling us we are, we are going along with the scam- doing everything that lunatic Irishman wants us to do. Come on, I'll show you." He walked over to the evidence board, and started to take Dimmock through it. At every step along the way he offered an alternative view to what Donovan had told Dimmock's team last night.

The open plan office behind them was filling up. It was almost nine thirty, and the MIT members were getting stuck into the day's work. A few were standing around one desk, reading over the shoulder of a chap who had brought in the Sun newspaper.

Unbeknownst to Lestrade, one set of eyes had found his back and were observing his every move. PC Hanson had spent the night outside Lestrade's flat, waiting for the DI to arrive home. When he didn't show, he'd called into the desk sergeant only to be told his target had arrived at the office. On the way into New Scotland Yard, he'd got on the phone to text his contact, the one who had made him watch for Lestrade's return. Within minutes, a call came in reply. He took this one outside on the pavement, before going into the Yard. An odd voice, protected by a voice synthesiser, was on the other end.

"It's show time, policeman plod! I need you to get close enough to him to put a bullet in him; if you don't hear from me after 10.15, then kill Lestrade."

"Whoa- just wait a minute! I only ever agreed to keep an eye on the guy!"

The weird voice on the phone just laughed. "Kill or be killed, matey and, if you need more incentive, I will throw in your wife and kiddies. So, pull the trigger, or my man's trigger finger will twitch for them. Don't worry. The gun you've been given has another person's prints on it- a certain consulting detective's prints. You won't get caught as long as you're discrete and leave the gun behind when you've done the deed."

The words echoed in his ears still. How had he ended up here? A gambling debt gone bad, an acceptance of a bribe- it was enough to turn him from an officer on one of the Murder Investigation Unit into a hired gun. The idea of his wife and the two girls now at risk was making his palms sweat. The small illegal weapon in his ankle holster weighed heavily, but doing the deed at the Yard was different from the guy's flat- it would be much harder to hide his role in it.

When Hanson got to his desk, Dimmock was frowning at Lestrade. Hanson moved over to the unoccupied desk nearest the pair, fishing for a file on it and then pretending to read its contents.

"So, Donovan's version and mine are equally possible. It's just that Moriarty is manipulating us all into believing that Holmes is the villain."

The other DI was not buying it outright, but he was listening.

"Come on, Dimmock- a man is innocent until proven guilty. You've seen him work. Right now, Sherlock could do with all the friends he's got on this force."

"Friends? I wouldn't have thought Holmes has many friends. He's too insufferable for that. _You_ are probably the closest thing to a friend he's got- you've put up with his ego for years." The younger man now looked speculatively at the older DI. "I don't suppose you've seen him since he escaped?"

At that question, a traitorous idea crept into Greg's thoughts. He could tell the Yard exactly where Sherlock was. It was a last ditch defence- get Sherlock taken into custody to protect him from whatever confrontation he was planning. Sherlock would never, ever forgive him. But, he'd be alive. And just maybe turning him in would re-establish some of his own credibility. Then when Sherlock was proved innocent, they could both be reinstated. He hated the very idea. Was he that desperate, yet? He wondered if he should play for a little bit more time.

Time was something that Hanson was running out of. He glanced at the clock over the evidence board- the third time in the past ten minutes. It had just gone a quarter to ten. The gun felt impossibly heavy, a ball and chain around his ankle, its weight reminding him of what he was going to have to do if his family was to survive this morning. He only hoped that his sweaty face and rumpled clothing would not attract attention; luckily, other officers had worked all night, too, so he didn't stand out like a sore thumb.

Dimmock was waiting for the answer to his question, watching Lestrade closely. Something must have shown in his expression, because it prompted a whispered explosion- "Oh, _shit_ , you _have_ seen him. Lestrade, you _have_ to tell the Chief if you ever want to work here again."

Greg heard the comment, and finally realised it was the truth. He'd run out of options. He also remembered Sherlock's words: " _When they come with questions about the cases, you have to be seen as a reliable witness- for both our sakes_."

The best way to do that was to turn him in. However disloyal it might seem, it just might save Sherlock's life, so he could get a chance to defend himself. And it just might mean that they'd at least listen to Lestrade when he tried to explain a decade's worth of work with the consulting detective.

Lestrade nodded to Dimmock, and then before he could reply, Greg went into his office and picked up the phone. Hanson couldn't hear what was being said, he just watched as the clock hands moved inexorably on. Then Lestrade stood up, bending over his desk. "Yes sir, goodbye." That was loud enough to carry.

The DI came out. "Come on, Dimmock; I have to take you and one other officer with me." Hanson was nearest to the pair, so he said "I'll come with you, sir." Dimmock nodded and the three men set off down the corridor. Lestrade said grimly, "He was at St Bartholomew's Hospital when I last saw him. No big splash this time; I need an unmarked car."

Hanson responded. "Let's take mine; he won't recognise it. I'll drive."

At every red traffic light, Hanson took another look at his watch. They had just turned onto Fleet Street when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. When the traffic signal at the intersection with Farrington Street went yellow, Hanson stopped, pulling out his phone to see a new text message. He thumbed it open, scared witless that it was going to tell him that he was too late, he'd not followed instructions and that his family was now dead.

**10.12 Stand down. Mission accomplished. Ditch the evidence.**

He closed his eyes in relief, and they were still closed when the car driver leaned on his horn. "Alright, just give me a break," Hanson muttered. From the back seat, Lestrade snapped, "Just get a move on, will you? He might not still be there, given how long you're taking!"


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lestrade arrives at Barts, what happened next?

By the time Hanson drove the car up to the entrance of St Barts, Lestrade was almost twitching with a sense of urgency. Ever since he told the Chief that he would bring Sherlock in, he'd been worrying about just how long Sherlock would take to set up his confrontation with Moriarty. When and where would he seek a showdown? It was just over ninety minutes since Greg had come down the stairs from the lab, leaving the consulting detective throwing the squash ball against the cupboards. And where the hell was John Watson?

Greg had never known Watson to be anything but loyal. Surely, he wouldn't have abandoned Sherlock at this stage? As the car had forced its way through London's morning rush hour traffic, he wondered about that. Sherlock clearly wanted John 'safe', whatever that meant. So, Greg assumed that he would have figured some way, some scheme to keep the doctor busy but out of the way, while he organised his meeting with the Irishman.

His instinct told him that Sherlock would engineer such a meeting on familiar territory. It would be important to that he could trust his surroundings, know every corridor, every staircase, exit and entrance. Given that Baker Street was off limits because it was being watched by the police, Greg thought Sherlock would try to find a way to lure Moriarty to Barts, if he could manage it. That was the reason why Greg believed it when he told the Chief that he would be able to arrest him.

As soon as the car turned into the road outside Barts, Lestrade threw off his seatbelt. "Once you've parked, you'll find us in the lab on the third floor. Come on, Dimmock." As the car rolled to a halt, Lestrade was already out and the other DI scrambled to follow. Grey clouds were spitting, so the pair hurried before the full shower caught them.

Greg strode into the main entrance of the hospital and noticed a small crowd of people standing about on the left of the foyer. He turned to the right, and put a hand on the double doors to the stairs, starting to push it open. _Stairs will be quicker than waiting for a lift._

"Just leave me alone. I need to stay here. I need to be with him."

Greg's brain heard it, taking a moment to process it as he started through the doors, and then realised it was John Watson's voice he was hearing. He stopped so suddenly that Dimmock walked straight into the back of him. It was John's voice, but there was something so very wrong with it that the sound stopped Greg dead in his tracks. Dimmock began to apologise, but Lestrade had already turned around and was back through the doors.

"Let me through; I'm a police officer." The order was snapped with all the command authority of a twenty-five year career in the Met. The crowd of medical workers parted, to reveal John sitting in a plastic chair. He was looking down at the floor, struggling to avoid the ministrations of a nurse, who was examining an angry red scrape across the side of John's forehead.  As she dabbed at the blood, she said quietly,"I'm sorry, but you _have_ to go to UCLH's A and E; this head injury must be looked at. You've probably got a concussion."

In a moment, Lestrade dropped to one knee in front of John and took him by the shoulders. The doctor did not lift his eyes, "Where is he, John? Where's Sherlock?"

A pair of dazed, red-rimmed eyes looked up at Greg, and then seemed to focus on him with some recognition. John's expression was shocked wide and vulnerable as he struggled to find words. "Why? I don't understand why. Why would he do that?"

"Do _what_ , John? What's Sherlock done?"

Watson's face just crumpled.

" _TELL ME!"_ Lestrade made no attempt to hide his fear.

The doctor just looked away, with a forlorn whisper, "why _jump?_ " The last word was uttered with such despair that it stunned Lestrade, who released John's shoulders and stood up. "Can anyone tell me what's going on?"

The nurse who had been trying to examine John's forehead spoke up. "There was …an incident. A man fell from the roof- onto the pavement just outside. He was brought in here and pronounced dead. Then Doctor Watson came in a moment later- like this, in shock and he needs to have that injury seen to. We don't have an Emergency Department here, so I've called an ambulance, but he's confused and uncooperative."

The words sank in, one at a time, as if Greg's brain couldn't quite catch up with his ears. Then he heard a voice which he realised was his own ask the question, " _Who_ died?"

The nurse looked at him, startled. "I thought that was why you were here. We called the police ten minutes ago to report the death. Enough people at the hospital recognised him, even as…damaged as he was by the fall. It was Sherlock Holmes."

Greg looked at her, trying to understand what she said. Then somewhere, somehow, training kicked in. "Where is he? Where's Sherlock? I need to see him for myself." The voice he heard in his ears was calm, determined and would not accept anything other than the truth from the woman who stood in front of him.

"His body's been moved downstairs to the mortuary. It's been identified formally by the pathologist, Doctor Hooper."

Lestrade turned away from the woman and started towards the doors. Behind him, he heard DI Dimmock say "Doctor John Watson, I am arresting you on the charge of assault and resisting arrest. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." A part of Lestrade wanted to stop and tell Dimmock to stop being a prat, but a bigger part of him needed to ignore everything except what was waiting for him downstairs in the mortuary.

When he pushed open the double doors into the room where he and Sherlock had examined so many bodies, Greg had already considered a dozen different scenarios, ranging from mistaken identity to the idea that somehow the body would turn out to be that of James Moriarty. Then Molly Hooper turned around to face him. One look at her made him realise that only one of the scenarios was actually true. She looked as devastated as John had been.

"Stop right there, Detective Inspector." She crossed her arms around a clipboard she was carrying.

"Doctor Hooper, _is it true?_ " He cast his eyes about the room, the stainless steel autopsy table was empty, but he could see it was still wet. "Where is he?"

She struggled to find the words. "It's true; he's dead. I've done the formal identification and notified his next of kin. His brother. Left a message, he was in a meeting."

"I need to see him. I need to see him myself." His voice cracked on the last word. The unmitigated _awfulness_ of it all was beginning to seep into his voice, his bones, his soul.

"I can't do that. I will tell you what I told John Watson. I've done the formal identification. The paperwork is done- death certificate signed. You don't need to see him."

"Yes, I do. I really do."

"No. I won't let you."

That penetrated through the gauze of grief that was winding itself around Greg's mind. "Why not?"

The pathologist gave him a gentle look. She tried to say something but the words got caught. She took two quick breaths, and tried again. "Because you don't want to have that as the last image in your mind about him. Remember him as he was, before this. Falling sixty feet is not…kind on a human body, Detective Inspector. I…care…enough about him to want to protect him from being that horrible an image for you."

It was the longest speech he'd ever heard out of Miss Hooper. She was usually so tongue tied in Sherlock's presence; even that Christmas when Sherlock had been so horrible in his deductions about her that he'd apologised. It made Greg realise the pain she was trying to protect him from. All he could think of saying was " _You_ had to see him that way."

"I see dead bodies every day- in every state of death, destruction and decomposition. Anyway, I don't count. Didn't count, not that way, to Sherlock. He didn't think of me the way I know he did you. John and you, you counted. I was just…useful to him. I know that. This is …one more _useful_ thing I can do for him now. I couldn't stop him from doing it, but I can treat him with respect now, and keep him alive for you, at least in your memory."

Greg stood staring at her in the silence. The awfulness of the silence. He felt the long night of anxiety and stress escaping through a shuddering tremor in his left knee. He felt sick to his stomach. She held his gaze for a moment longer and then broke it to look away. "I couldn't stop John Watson from seeing it happen. According to the people upstairs, he saw Sherlock fall. I can't erase that from his mind…I so wish I could. I know Sherlock would not have wanted that. He _cared_ for John." At this, her eyes filled up and tears slipped past her eye lids. "I can't leave here. There are…other things I need to do here. Can I ask you to do something _now_ for me?"

"What?"

"Find out what happened on the roof."

He realised with a jolt that he'd been so focused on his disbelief about Sherlock that he'd actually lost focus completely. Her request made him realise that if he didn't do something soon, he was going to fall apart. And he couldn't do that. Not yet, anyway. Professionally speaking, he just had to hang on, get through it. Find out what had happened. Process the scene. Do his job.

He heard a voice, that baritone voice, in his head. _It's The Work. Lestrade. In the end, that's all that matters._

Later…later there would be time for what ifs, for recriminations and regrets. It was the least he could do for Sherlock, now. It might be that last crime scene he'd be on for a very long time. H _e'd want me to do it._ Greg nodded to her, and got back to work.


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rooftop crime scene- but Lestrade isn't able to handle this one.

Lestrade met Dimmock coming down the stairs to the mortuary as he went up them. The younger DI explained. "I've sent Hanson off to the Snow Hill Station with Watson; he'll process him on charges."

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. "He's in no state to talk; he needs a doctor. Didn't you hear that nurse?"

"The station will get him seen to- just like any other arrested suspect."

Before Lestrade could respond to the idea that Watson should be considered a suspect, Dimmock continued. "Was she right? Was it Holmes?"

There must have been something in his expression that confirmed it for Dimmock, who drew in a deep breath. "I can't say that I'm surprised. I found this on the seat next to John. Have you seen it?"

Greg looked down at the morning's Metro newspaper, folded open to an inside page, the headline in bold type: **_FAKE DETECTIVE FOOLED THE YARD FOR YEARS_** , with that stupid photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat, in front of the Met press conference when the Mafioso's arrest was announced.

Lestrade just snapped, "Stuff that paper where it belongs- in a rubbish bin. We've got a crime scene to investigate on the roof of this building."

The DI's aggressive tone brought Dimmock up sharp, but he followed Lestrade up the stairs as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

By the time Lestrade reached the final flight of stairs, he was puffing. But he stopped to put a pair of latex gloves on- the same pair he'd taken with him to Baker Street what seemed half a lifetime ago. As he came to the metal door to the roof, he saw it was unlocked and ajar. He stepped out onto the roof, with Dimmock close behind. The shower had passed, and the roof was now bathed in bright sunshine. But all that was noticed in a moment, as both men's eyes came to rest on a body and the blood pool behind his head.

Dimmock was on the phone a second later, calling it in. Lestrade walked over and looked down at the shocked wide brown eyes, the navy wool coat, expensive suit. Then he saw the silver of the gun lying a few feet away where it must have fallen.

"Another body- Holmes must have killed him and then jumped."

Lestrade did not trust himself to respond to his colleague with a denial, because if he had, it could be held against him. So, he just answered, "This is James Moriarty." He pulled his own phone out and took a picture, and then found the most recent phone number he'd rung, sending the photo with a text.

**11.04 Tell Mycroft, he's too late. They're both dead.**

Then he bent down to look at the weapon. His head was already processing the possibilities and discarding some along the way, but he kept coming back to it. The logical conclusion was that this was the gun from the assassin who was shot last night, and that Sherlock had used it to kill Moriarty. _He said he wouldn't. I heard him say it to me not more than two hours ago. What changed his mind? Is that why he decided to …to jump?_ Lestrade knew that Sherlock was not a killer. Yet, he also knew that Sherlock had no particular regard for his own life. Too willing to risk everything, to not care about the consequences until later.

He took a shaky breath. There would be no _later_ for the man he had come to know, to respect, to …Greg couldn't find the right word. Nothing fit. Nothing covered their unique relationship. He realised his vision was blurring, so he stood up and walked away. _Get a grip._ He knew that he had only moments left before the Met team arrived and the case would be taken from him. Without an arrest, without exoneration, Sherlock's death meant that his time left as a Detective Inspector with the Met was coming to an end. And it didn't matter, not one bit. What mattered was that Sherlock was dead. And he knew that the Met would have Sherlock in their sights for this latest murder, and that of the Frenchman last night. It was all too easy. The Chief would be delighted. Wrapped up and solved, the Met got their man, and didn't even have to put him or Moriarty on trial. Saved the public purse the cost, and Sherlock would never get the chance to argue his case. His own career with the Met was now over, too, and he'd been bundled out of the service as fast as possible, lest it disrupt the neatly wrapped up "solution". 

Greg's emotions were getting more uncontrollable by the second, so he took a few steps further away from Dimmock and the body. That's when his glance fell on the small black object off to the right, not far from the balustrade at the roof edge. He walked over, and recognised it as Sherlock's phone. Greg had only seconds to decide, but he made his choice even faster, picking it up and putting it in his pocket. He glanced back at Dimmock who was still examining Moriarty's body. Greg knew that he'd just stolen evidence from a crime scene. Enough to get him fired, not just suspended. He didn't care. Sherlock's phone would tell him something of what had happened, he was sure of it, somehow. If it ended up in the hands of the police, who knows what would happen to the truth, if it was inconvenient to their views.

He took the next few steps to the roof edge and the low parapet. A deep breath, and then he looked over the side. Even from this distance he could see a splash of colour on the pavement. He and Dimmock had run into the ground floor entrance, right by it, without realising it was there. The rain that had been falling when they first arrived would have disturbed the pattern. He needed to tell Dimmock that the team should take photos before another shower disturbed it more. His vision blurred again, and he stepped back from the edge and the sight, pinching his nose and trying to get himself back under control.

Whatever thoughts he was wrestling to control were shattered when the metal roof door was thrown wide open with enough force to bang against the brick wall, and out poured men. Not the uniformed police that Lestrade was expecting- these looked more like special ops troops, with one notable exception. He was in a suit, with the lean and vigilant look that Greg had come to recognise as the hallmark of Mycroft's minions.

 _Too late_. He looked away from them, back over the rooftops that surround St Bartholomew's hospital. He wondered if Mycroft would even bother to make an appearance. Greg was starting to feel the effects of shock taking hold. It was all just too  _unbelievable._ Sherlock was dead. 

"Please step away from the parapet, sir." The clipped tones betrayed the speaker's public school education. Greg turned to face the man. "I won't even bother to ask you who you are- probably an alias anyway." The DI's tone of voice betrayed his resignation. He looked at the innocuous face- the sort you'd see and instantly forget. _Where does Mycroft find them?_

"You and DI Dimmock need to follow my colleague back down the stairs. We need to clear the roof, so our people can process the scene."

Dimmock looked annoyed, even from five yards away. He'd been herded away from the body by two operatives. He snapped, "And what about the Met team that's on its way?"

"They've been stood down. This person was a wanted criminal in thirty two countries, so his death is a matter for my service to investigate. The Police Commissioner has handed over jurisdiction. You may leave now." The last word was given just enough stress to ensure that neither DI could mistake it for anything other than an order.

That's when the penny dropped. Greg experienced an "OH" moment, as he used to call Sherlock's intuitive leaps that made his deductive processes unique. Mycroft had _known_ all along. He was simply watching and waiting for this to happen. For Moriarty to turn up dead, killed by someone who could not be traced back to any legal service. Someone whose reputation was already so damaged that it wouldn't matter if he took the blame for this one, too.

Greg realised now that Mycroft Holmes had sat by and _watched_ the confrontation unfold, because he knew it would end with Moriarty's death. And that was more important than the risk to Sherlock. He tried to swallow the taste of bile that was now in his throat. What was it that Sherlock had said last night about his brother? They'd had a difference of opinion. _He can't lift a finger to intervene or it will cost him his life's work._ And then Sherlock said he didn't need his brother's help.

He felt the agent's hand grip his elbow. "You need to leave _now_."

He looked at the man. "I want you to give a message to Mycroft Holmes. Will you do that for me?"

As the man nodded curtly, the DI's fist connected with the side of the agent's temple, and he dropped like a stone. Lestrade walked past the startled look of the other agents and nodded a goodbye to Dimmock, who looked equally stunned.

As he left the roof, Greg couldn't help but think that Sherlock would have approved.


End file.
